Sinner
by Rose Midnight Moonlight Black
Summary: Some sins are so black; they'll taint you with association – because the past is unavoidable, bloodthirsty and unforgiving. Dark, very Dark.


**Disclaimer** I OWN NOTHING. Yes, nothing in fact, this diverges from the majority of canon out there so...hahaha

_**WARNING:**_ Very VERY very dark context ahead, continue only at your own perial. You thought I'd done dark before, with To Be A Hero? I've bearly scrached the surface and that with this and of course Honour Killing.

This is for CampionSayn, who beleives in me and who constantly insists on reminding my both why I love her and why I can walk away with her stories. Seriously, Check her out! She bring out in the Inner Delia in me. .

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><p><strong><span>Sinner<span>**

_So, why do you take this, conquer and dismay this_

_Peaceful sanity of mine?_

_You're attempting to bore me, shatter and destroy me_

_Is worthless and fuels my gain_

_Maybe we're all insane..._

**Broken Iris, Eyes of Tomorrow**

'_I know who you are...Damian. I know what you've done.'_

He hadn't meant to throw the man through the wall; it was just that he had...overreacted. Still, that didn't stop the dreg grinning up at him through bloodied teeth, like one of the extra persistent Jokerz. Damian fought to keep his face relatively blank. "Really, and what exactly have I done?"

The career criminal pulled himself up from the ground slowly, brushing the dust off that god forsaken grin not wavering once. Derik Kant, a nobody, a man who until two months ago Damian hadn't even known existed – that is, until he started to kidnap teenagers so he could literally rip them apart. He was handy with a knife to say the least. Even Damian felt vaguely ill just looking at the body parts.

Two months, spent trying to figure out what was going through this monster's head. Two months trying to hunt him down before he struck again. Sixty-one days... then the man sends him an e-mail, inviting him over for tea and cucumber sandwiches. Damian had agreed, alarmed and wary that a serial killer would be so eager to meet him, personally...to meet Damian Al Ghul Wayne. That was the name on the e-mail. Although how he even got Damian's address –

Maybe he should have accepted Helena's offer of backup, even if he was a _little_ too old to fit the man's MO.

Kant laughed, a lowly chuckled that made Damian seriously want to hit the man in the face. Repeatedly. The room around them was practically decaying before them, but plastered on every inch of every wall was picture after picture after picture of Kant's victims, in varying states of being butchered. Drowning, decapitation, electrocution, suffocation, starvation– Kant really wasn't picky about how the kids finally snuffed it, as long as he got his fun before hand and there was enough left to cut up.

"Com' on, Damian, you and me – we are two of a kind!" The man flung his arms open, as if he was going to embrace Damian. The younger (looking at any rate, Lazarus treatment and all) sneered at the rather unsettling man before him.

"We are nothing alike, Kant, I don't go around torturing kids for kicks." Damian wondered why he didn't just beat the hell out of the man and arrest him. Maybe it was because, like it or not, a part of him had already started to obsess over Kant. Something about the man, his case, his MO just tugged at Damian; some detail he couldn't see screamed at him that there was more there. That, and the fact the man seemed to know him, and with Kant than was unnerving all on its own.

Kant's chuckle was slightly psychotically creepy, "Kids? Oh, Dami, I thought you knew me better by now. You meant to tell me you don't know? You haven't figured it out?" Than man moved closer, his grey eyes widened comically, "_Gods,_ they told me you were _quick _–"

Damian grabbed Kant's shirt front before he even knew what he was going and slammed him into the picture plastered wall. Kant's manic smile didn't fade, except now he was laughing _at_ Damian, "Who? Who told you what exactly, Kant? What _haven't_ I figured out?" he snarled lowly, teeth barred like fangs an inch from Kant's nose.

"Oh Dami," the murdered cooed in a quiet voice, like a lover, "I think you already know...look at them, really look at them." Damian's eyes flickered to the right of Kant's head, where an image depicted one of Kant's victims screaming as the metal bed she was tied too was 'lit' up. Andrea Rizzo, twenty-four. Electrocuted beyond recognition, her parts were found in the river, DNA was needed to find out who she had been. She had been very pretty, a real Italian beauty... "Com' on Dami, really look at them – at all of them." Damian's eyes flicked, blue meeting bloody blue.

Tyler Martins, eighteen, small cut after small cut until he slowly bleed to death, but he was still somewhat conscious when Kant started _chopping_.

Alec Chatzi, ten, drowned in a fish tank and his pieces fed to the fish...mostly...

Freya Callo, twenty-seven, blood loss – he hadn't waited for her to die first...

Carlo Gordon, nineteen, Elias Devon, eight, Rosemarie Romano, twenty-one, Leon Dekas, sixteen, Nemo Alexakis, Nine, Vanessa Dinozzo, twenty-three...and so many more. He could still see their names and faces, even if he closed his eyes, they were there.

In some way, they all fit Kant's MO – Young females, black hair, blue eyes, white, Italian-American heritage and boys, black haired, blue eyed Greco-American between eight and twelve or sixteen to twenty. As far as Damian could see, it was like Kant picked those kids because they all resembled each other so close and had similar heritages...

Italian-American...early to mid twenties...female...

Greco-American ...early or late teens...male...

"WHAT IS THIS?" Damian slammed Kant back into the wall, with enough force to cause a small hole. His teeth bit down into his lip hard enough to draw blood as he snarled. He longed to show Kant what _he _could do with a blade.

"Look, go on, they're all there...look and you'll see." Kant smiled, creepy and all knowing. Damian wanted to strangle the man or beat him until he either submitted or died. Sick bastard. It was people like him who made Damian think his father was wrong, mercy was too good for them.

Instead he let go, forcing his rage down to simmer beneath the surface. He didn't want to play Kant's game, but it might be the only way to figure it all out. Damian knew, _he knew_ he was missing something, something so important, so vital – something that his gut told him was going to explain the whole thing. That was both ten times more sinister and terrifying that anything Kant had revealed yet.

He stepped back from Kant, and the man impatiently waved at him to look around, to examine his 'work'. And Damian did, hesitantly, looking at each wall closely. He felt sick, so sick that the bile was almost already in his mouth. There were pictures of every victim, the first to the most recent; he could name each and every one, match face to name.

Except, when he had seen them, it was pictures before they were kidnapped, before their bodies were all mangled beyond recognition... here – here, they were being tortured or were already dead, faces and body reasonably whole – the happiness, the calm normality in the photos of them he had seen, it wasn't there. Here there was pain, angst, terror, grief and fear. Oh, so much he could already taste it, hear them screaming.

He didn't want to look, he knew those pictures were going to haunt him, every blue eye until the day he died. But he did, because he had to. He had to know what Kant knew, if there were more victims or why these people.

He looked in every face, matched to every name. All the pictures were of...no, not all. There were a few pictures where the victim wasn't screaming, because they weren't being tortured. Because -

Suddenly, everything clicked. So simple, so subtle. Kant knew his name. _All of his name_...

Damian turned in an instant and threw himself at Kant, a scream of unhinge rage ripped from his lips. Hate – that was what he felt and pain was what he wanted to inflict on Kant. Agony.

He didn't care about rules; he didn't care about blind justice. He didn't care about closure for the families. He wanted to rip Kant limb from limbs like his victims. He wanted to torture the man, but settle for the satisfaction of bare fist on flesh. He hit him, punched, kicked, beat Kant to the ground.

Form didn't matter; almost all of his previous training fled his mind with all reason and restraint – enough stayed to make sure he hit every painful point without actually killing him. Pure instinctive rage washed over him and Damian let it take him, as Kant's plan, Kant's message unravelled in from of him.

Not all the pictures were of Kant's victims. For a long time Damian had wondered, why? Why had Kant chosen those kids, who all resembled each other in one way or another – he had wondered if the man was basing them on a template. He was right, righter than he could have known.

_...He knew my name!_

Damian didn't stop attacking when the man screamed, or when blood covered his clothes, or when Kant stopped flinching away. Why?

Because the three different pictures, a girl and two boys on the wall. Because, Kant's _template_...was Helena, Terry and Matt. _His siblings_. Kant was attacking _his family_, his brothers and sister, through many _helpless _victims, whose only misfortune was to share common features with his siblings. The truth scared him more than it should, seeming to send chills down his spine. Fear and panic – yes, Damian was panicking. He barely recognized the feeling.

Italian-American females, black hair, blue eyes, twenties...Helena, she fit that description perfectly and what was so _unknown_ was that not only was Selina Kyle born Italian but she had links to the _mafia_ before being brought and raised in America.

Greco-American, males, black hair, blue eyes, early or late teens – Terry and Matt, he could see it now. That was why the pictures had upset him, why they unsettled him. They resembled, if nothing more, his brothers, _his little_ brothers. _But how could Kant know, when even Damian wasn't meant to, that Terry and Matt had Greek ancestry...and direct ties to Ancient Rome?_ How could he know who their biological mother was?

How did he know? Why was he stalking them, stalking Damian? How...

Damian staggered back, his limbs shaking and sticky red. His blues eye fixed on Kant, who coughed and giggled from his heap on the floor. Damian fell back, back, back until he hit the wall, flattened against the gory images. Kant groan and uncurled, now sure that Damian wasn't about to attack again the instant he moved.

"Oh Dami," the man spluttered lovingly around a mouth missing teeth, _Helena's favourite pet name for him_, "I take it all back; you are rather _quick_ aren't you?" Trembling, the serial killer pushed up onto his hands and knees, ecstatic beyond the pain.

"Why?" Damian voice was croaky, and strangely hoarse. His hands were shaking, adrenaline, fear, exhaustion - so many causes to choose from.

"Why not?" Kant shrugged, "No, Dami, you're special to me I'll tell you the truth. I did it because, well, yes it was so much fun, but a man approached me a few months ago. Fan of the work, you see, and oh did he hate you Damian." The man grinned and winked, like they were sharing some sort of dirty joke, "The things he told me, I didn't want to believe but then I realized it didn't matter if I wanted to or not. He paid me very well if I...hmm, how to put it? If I would torture you."

Kant struggled and staggered to his feet, clinging on to the wall for support. _This is my fault,_ Damian realized. Someone did this, all of this, to get to him. And it could be anyone. Damian slid down the wall, his knees suddenly no longer able to support him. _I was very nearly the reason Mattie ended up in the hand of Kant._ He wanted to be sick. No, he was going to be sick. All those people...

"You have a lot of enemies, Dami. Really and after what he told me, I'm not surprised." Kant stretched, "You really did inspire me. That's why I took the job in the end. They showed me your work and they were wrong – assassin? No, you're an artist, you're like me – all this, it's a talent, its art. Death is art, Dami and when I look at the people you killed, I _saw_ it. There are so few people who could kill like that." Damian want to cry, to hear Kant talk like that, to hear every dark and twisted word fall from his lips with sickening reverence. Kant meant every word and every word was true. Damian regretted the years he had tried to appease both his father and grandfather and only ended up in a bloody mess – but he had never regretted it this much.

Some of the death...they were so familiar. Kant had killed look-a-likes of his family – the same way he had killed drug lords and mafia bosses. As if Damian had... he could taste bile again, at just the _thought_.

"I did enjoy the job," Kant continued, in a mild sort of voice, "I mean, your sister, she's one beautiful girl – such spirit and fire. I'd just love five minute with her and a few car batteries." Kant's eyes glazed over slightly, "Or that Terry, now there's a handsome boy, oh very good looking – runs in the family doesn't it? I'm sure he'd be even better when he breaks, screams, bleeds,_ cries_ ...oh yes." Kant's tongue licked his lips; he seemed to forget Damian was there, hearing every gross word in a sort of daze. "Mattie's nice too, very cute," he added, like an afterthought, "But I'm really not into_ that_ sort of thing...but I _know_ people who _are_."

Enough, Damian blinked off his daze, forcing his light headedness away, that was _enough_. "Stop." _Please, just stop._ But he could never say that, never would.

Kant blinked, "-It was such a shame, though. My employer wanted them untouched, for now at least. You might want to be a little more careful, Damian, Lord on knows the sort of monsters out there who might...heh, like to have _fun_ with them. Poor little pretties."

Damian hadn't even realized he could move before he was across the room, his hands around Kant's throat. "If you go near them, near any of them, I swear to God I will kill you. I will flay the skin from your bone, I'll break every bone and use them to make soup – Stay. Away. From. My. Family." He hissed as Kant choked.

The man laughed, a hissy sort of laugh, even as his face turned a light blue, "Me? Com' on, I'm not walking away from here alive, we both know that. But my employers, Dami, they know so many more people – people who could come up with interesting way for your darlings to snuff it and it would still be your fault. Ha, Daddy would never forgive you then, now would he? Not the ones he actually likes." Kant smirked at him, his eyes cutting into him. "Now, underground fighting, your little Hellcat, splicer-freak would fit in fine there. Or a room for your pretty whittle Amazon? Oh the prices people would pay for that! And of course," a sly, dark look broke over Kant's face at last, "There always people who'll enjoy a few evenings with a pretty little kid."

Damian punched him, feeling Kant's nose break instantly. The man cried but Damian didn't stop. His fingers moved, instinctively finding, remembering just where –

Snap.

Kant fell and, this time, he didn't get up again. Damian was left shaking in the middle of a room plastered with picture of his family being tortured and Kant's whispers running around and around his head. Kant knew. More people knew. People who knew who he was, who Helena was – and more terrifyingly, who Terry and Matt were. People he's upset. People who wanted to hurt him.

Who would hurt _them_.

Damian didn't often, if ever, cry. He was sure he had long since lost the ability too but now he raised a bloody hand to his all-too-pale cheek and found it wet and his eyes red.

What had he done?

Their father was going to kill him.

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><p>Hand up who thinks Bruce is going to kill Damian?<p> 


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